A Reader's Dream or Nightmare Part 3
About a dream or nightmare that a reader submitted.
I relayed the information to the man at the desk and turned to go back. I had taken three steps when he called to me, "We just want to know what we are to do with all these cartons." He gestured towards the baggage room, and I couldn't help following his hand. There, not 30 ft. away, was a pile of cartons on a forklift. The pile was about five boxes wide, five deep, and seven high. They were not in the best of condition. They were frayed and torn, and desperately needed the strings they were tied with in order to stay together. Peeking out of sides and corners were nothing but rags and crumpled newspaper.
When I returned to the ladies' room, I told the old woman that I had done what she requested, and asked her if she would be much longer. Again, she did not answer me. It was now almost 6:30.
After a few minutes, I remembered--from my dream--what I was supposed to do. I thought I might as well get it over with. I called, "Miss _____, are you all right?" No response. Again, "Miss _____, can you answer me?" Not only was there no answer, there was no sound of any kind. I knew she was alive, and yet I couldn't keep from thinking she might be dead. I forced myself to wait another 15 min. Finally, positioning myself in front of the toilet door, I said, "Miss _____, I know what I'm supposed to do. I know what you want me to do. But I'm not going to open that door. So if you don't let me know that you are all right, I will have to get the manager." After a moment's hesitation, she flushed the toilet.
So that was my answer. Shortly, the slapping sounds of reapplying the bandages began. This operation lasted close to 45 min. During this time, it occurred to me that her dressings were not made by Johnson & Johnson. I knew that the paper-strewn floor of the receptacle would be neater when she left it. I was right.
When at last she emerged, shuffling her suitcases, her head held a trifle higher, she bore her old brown eyes into my blue ones. Her expression was smug and secretive. She pointed to her luggage and we made our way down the stairs and to the desk. I set her bags down and said good-bye. She didn't say a word.
I have not had that nightmare since then; almost two years have passed. There has been no suggestion of it. And yet, I still have a slight hangover. Should I have discovered what frightened me in the dreams? Or was I spared a more horrible nightmare? I'll never know. Because, I do believe, that was the end of the dream.
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